


Alternate Ending of Emma

by d_s_t_e



Category: Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22993498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_s_t_e/pseuds/d_s_t_e
Summary: This is a replacement of the ending of Jane Austen's Emma, picking up at Volume 3, Chapter 6. Intended to be very similar to the book, it will be nearly identical at first, but certain key differences will be made known. This is the ending I would have liked to see.
Relationships: The ships are a surprise
Comments: 14
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it.

Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought at first;—but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.

This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:—it could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.

“I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very comfortably. “But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not leave her out.”

Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.

It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack.

“Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” she cried.—“And such weather for exploring!—These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?—The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.”

“You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley. “That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening fast.”

If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the “Oh! I should like it of all things,” was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again and again to come—much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it.

“You may depend upon me,” said she. “I certainly will come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?”

“I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some others whom I would wish to meet you.”

“Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.”

“I hope you will bring Elton,” said he: “but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations.”

“Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you need not be afraid of delegating power to  _ me _ . I am no young lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests.”

“I shall be sure to invite Miss Fairfax,” Mr. Knightley said, “but as for the rest I shall take charge of the arrangements myself. I am sure you may be safely authorized for the arrangement of a party, and a lovely party it would be, but you must own that I am also capable, and all the more so since Donwell lies completely in my power.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose you are at that,” she said. “ Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane and her aunt.—The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them.”

“You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss Bates on my way home.”

“That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;—and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?”

“Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.”

“Well—as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?—Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything—”

“I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”

“Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely clever.”

“I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and would spurn any body's assistance.”

“I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;—and very long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt.”

“You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole's. I would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible.”

“That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend. Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the warmest heart.  You are an odd creature, a thorough humorist.

—Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please me.”

Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party; and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.

He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for two years. “Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of his neighbours.—He could not see any objection at all to his, and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine morning. He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them—very kind and sensible—much cleverer than dining out.—He was not fond of dining out.”

Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence. The invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment to themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could have been dispensed with.—Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.

In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing exactly right.

Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.—Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathiser.

It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.

She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.—The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.

She walked about with Harriet, who was a good deal impressed. In fact, she was so very complimentary of the house that Emma was reminded of her remarks upon their visit to the Vicarage a few months prior. She blushed upon recalling her scheme of the broken boot lace and resolved once more that she should never interfere in such a way with Harriet and Frank Churchill. It was good that they spoke nothing of it. Harriet, so good to her promise to tell Emma nothing of the matter, did not speak even a word in anticipation of his arrival from Richmond at any moment.

Nevertheless, Emma yielded to her friend’s unspoken desire, and they soon joined the others round the strawberry-beds. —The whole party were assembled, and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken of.—“The best fruit in England—every body's favourite—always wholesome.—These the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather for one's self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly the best time—never tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely superior—no comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in London—abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly different—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their way—delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries—currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no longer—must go and sit in the shade.”

Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—She had some fears of his horse.

Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.—A situation, a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with immediately.—On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph—and she positively refused to take her friend's negative, though Miss Fairfax continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge before.—Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an acquiescence by the morrow's post.—How Jane could bear it at all, was astonishing to Emma.—She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.—“Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens—all the gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent.”—The pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.

It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.—It led to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty.—The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;—and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and handsome curve around it.

It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being oppressive.

In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet!—It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.—There had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm;  but, having been so lately reminded of past blunders, she merely felt ashamed for her role in persuading her friend away from what must have been a very happy situation. The view of Abbey Mill Farm showed off  all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.—She joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, “These are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”— Emma was almost sorry for it.

The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—and they were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to coming, with more than common certainty. “His aunt was so much better, that he had not a doubt of getting over to them.”—Mrs. Churchill's state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming.—Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.

The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr. Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety which her spirits seemed to need.

Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second looking over was begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments' free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a look of escape.—Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.

“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say that I am gone home?—I am going this moment.—My aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to any body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am gone?”

“Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk to Highbury alone?”

“Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty minutes.”

“But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my father's servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. It can be round in five minutes.”

“Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would rather walk.—And for  _ me _ to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard others!”

She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, “That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the carriage. The heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already.”

“I am,”—she answered—“I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”

Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was grateful—and her parting words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes alone!”—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her, even towards some of those who loved her best.

“Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back into the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”

Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston would be at ease. The black mare was blameless;  _ they _ were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of coming, till very late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing like it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him like heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very deplorable.

“You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.

“As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met  _ one _ as I came—Madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”

Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the dining-room—and she humanely pointed out the door.

“No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him hotter.” In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off.

Emma thought his behavior very odd. He truly must have done being in love with her if her company was not sufficient to overcome the displeasure of a hot morning. But why had he made such a point of coming if not for the pleasure of her company? She was confident that the entire party would have understood his desire to care for his aunt during her sudden illness, disappointed though they would have been.

He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, like himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late. He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking over views in Swisserland.

“As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he. “I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my poem. I shall do something to expose myself.”

“That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England.”

“They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating eyes may fancy—I am sick of England—and would leave it to-morrow, if I could.”

“You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”

“ _ I _ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate person.”

“You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with the rest of us.”

“No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.”

“We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of a change. You will stay, and go with us?”

“No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.”

“But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.”

“No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.”

“Then pray stay at Richmond.”

“But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you all there without me.”

“These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.”

The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected. With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained.  Frank Churchill, who must have met Jane on the road, did not display surprise, but Emma was surprised to find that he became all the more cross at the mention of the subject. He was so cross indeed that he seemed determined to exclude himself from the next day’s scheme as the final arrangements were made for it.

When it was time for every body to go,  his last words to Emma were,

“Well;—if  _ you _ wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”

Emma hesitated, but said, “I believe that every body would wish it, but only if your aunt might spare you.”

“I believe she might,” he said, and so it was decided that  nothing less than a summons from Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.


	2. Volume 3, Chapter 7

They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse.

Nothing was wanting, but still Emma was uneasy. She had been pondering the events of the previous day, and the odd behavior of Frank Churchill in particular. She had not heard the particulars of Mr. Knightley’s suspicions regarding Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax, but she could not help wondering if his judgment might be deserving of more credit. Certainly it had proven to be more sound than her own when it came to Mr. Elton.

“Harriet,” she said, “I know we promised never to speak of the matter, but as your friend, I feel that I must caution you.”

She related all she knew of Mr. Knightley’s reported suspicions, as well as her own observations of the previous day.

“Oh,” said Harriet, “this does sound odd, but why  should you caution me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.” 

Emma was astonished. “You  do not mean to deny that there was a time—and not very distant either—when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?”

“Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?” turning away distressed.

“Harriet!” cried Emma, after a moment's pause—“What do you mean?—Good Heaven! what do you mean?—Mistake you!—Am I to suppose then?—”

She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost;  and she waited  in great terror till Harriet should answer. 

Harriet did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.

“I should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him—but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);—I should not have dared to give way to—I should not have thought it possible—But if  _ you _ , who had been always acquainted with him—”

“Harriet!” cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—“Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of—Mr. Knightley?”

“To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else—and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible.”

“Not quite,” returned Emma, with forced calmness, “for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert that you had  _ named _ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of.”

“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!”

“My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely natural:—and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.—The impression of it is strong on my memory.”

“Oh, dear,” cried Harriet, “now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth.”

“Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most unfortunate—most deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?”

“You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now—it  _ is _ possible—”

She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.

“I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strange as it may appear—. But you know they were your own words, that  _ more _ wonderful things had happened, matches of  _ greater _ disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should really—if  _ he _ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure.”

“Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?”  Emma asked.

“Yes,” replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—“I must say that I have.”

Emma looked out of the carriage window, silently meditating. It was truly dreadful that she should be so blind. That Harriet should be in love with such a man as Mr. Knightley! Her conduct was laid before her in the span of a few minutes.  She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on!

Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an elevation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.—Could it be?—No; it was impossible.

She turned to Harriet again and asked what idea she had of Mr. Knightley’s affection for her.

Harriet, who had been  looking out her own window in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be called from it  by  such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight. Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit—especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet.

Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.—Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!—Latterly she had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!—He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent.—Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him—and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.—She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than once.—Much that lived in Harriet's memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the latest occurrence to be mentioned, the one of strongest promise to Harriet, was not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.—This was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections were engaged.—But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about farming.

Emma, after a little reflection, ventured the following question. “Might he not?—Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin—he might have Mr. Martin's interest in view?” But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit.

“Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it.”

“To be sure, Mr. Knightley is far superior,” Emma agreed, “but he does think well of Robert Martin and was sorry to hear that you refused him. I am sorry as well, for I should not have interfered if I had been a better friend to you.”

Harriet protested, but Emma persisted. “I did think, at that time, that you had some interest in Robert Martin, but I feared greatly to lose you as a friend. I fear I may have judged the man unfairly on the basis of my selfishness. It was a very good letter that he wrote to you, and I should have encouraged you to consider your own feelings towards him while you were so uncertain. To be sure, surprise can make a woman doubtful. I wish I should at least have advised you to write your letter to him on your own, for it was most improper for me to interfere with your expression of your feelings towards him, whatever they might be. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Oh, Miss Woodhouse!” Harriet cried, “you shall always be the dearest friend to me.” She would not hear a word of Emma being at fault, but she did speak more kindly of Robert Martin when Emma mentioned him a second time. She also recalled a happy memory of time spent with his sisters, which Emma found encouraging. Perhaps it was not too late for the damage to be undone and for Harriet to learn to appreciate those of her own standing once again. It was as if she had been simply waiting for the approval of the dear Miss Woodhouse to consider them in a more pleasant light.

The subject of Mr. Knightley could not be resumed before their arrival, but Emma resolved to watch more carefully. She could not believe that he would be anything but honest in his dealings. Indeed she had never known a man to be more straightforward, and this gave her hope that the question might be easily resolved.

Box Hill appeared to be a very fine place, and  and every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but there was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove. 

If not for her curiosities, it would have been  downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked without seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without knowing what she said.  Surely there was some cause of unease, but he would not speak of it. Emma wondered whether he might be willing to speak privately, but Harriet was too nervous to join Mr. Knightley’s party without Emma, and the Eltons were out of the question.

When they all sat down together, however, Frank’s spirits seemed to lift. He  grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for—and Emma was not sorry to be flattered.  She was, however, curious to know what had caused this change.

“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to come to-day!—If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.”

“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you were too late for the best strawberries.”

“Don't say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.”

“It is hotter to-day.”

“Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”

“You did not seem to be so comfortable as you were walking with us. Do you feel quite well?”

“Oh! Yes, perfectly. I could hardly be otherwise when I’m with you.”

“Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)—nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”

“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively impudence. “Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other.” And then whispering—“Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They  _ shall _ talk. Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?”

Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr. Knightley's answer was the most distinct.

“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?”

“Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could—“Upon no account in the world.”

“It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, “which  _ I _ should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the  _ Chaperon _ of the party— _ I _ never was in any circle—exploring parties—young ladies—married women—”

Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband,  who proposed that they should walk.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Elton readily agreed. “ I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm.”

Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. “Happy couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:—“How well they suit one another!—Very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!”

Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own confederates, spoke now.

“Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.

“You were speaking,” said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.

“I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever.”

He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone,

“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?—I am sure I should like any body fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her.”

“I am afraid that the match between Mr. and Mrs. Weston is more to their credit than my own. I may have helped some small amount, but truly I can do nothing where there is not natural affection on both sides.”

Mr. Knightley smiled at her.

“I am sorry,” Emma said, “that you have not found any woman to your liking. But we have been resting very long. Perhaps we should walk on.”

Mr. Knightley, Mr. Weston, and Harriet agreed. Miss Bates was agreeable as well, although her niece looked most uncomfortable. She set out at a quick pace, while Frank Churchill followed the entire party. The conversation was taken up by Miss Bates, and even Emma was pleased to hear her speak.

The appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have  _ her _ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.

While waiting for the carriage, she found  Frank Churchill by her side. He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,  “Emma, I must speak to you about a matter of some delicacy. I don’t suppose you recall my hints to you at the end of my first visit to Highbury?”

“I do recall it.”

“I think you must not have suspected then, but I take it you do now.”

“You must speak plainly, sir, if you intend to do so.”

He sighed. “You must suspect a connection between myself and Miss Fairfax.”

“I did suspect that you were acting oddly, but a connection between yourself and Jane Fairfax! After you have paid such attentions to myself?”

“In truth,” he said, “we are engaged.”

Emma gasped with surprise.

“It has been kept a secret from everybody. No one knows it but ourselves.”

“But how could this be?”

“I induced her to it in October, before we parted at Weymouth. I was fortunate to meet with her charity. I should have gone mad had she refused. But you know of my difficulties at Enscombe.”

“You are quite certain, then, that your aunt would not approve? But what then was your hope in forming the engagement? What was your purpose in courting me?”

“I cannot deny that I have made  more than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown  when I arrived in Highbury,” he said. “But had I not been convinced of your indifference,  I would not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.  Amiable and delightful as you are, I never thought you likely to be attached, and indeed you did seem perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me. Until today you have always received my attentions with  an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me.”

“And so you used me for concealment!”

Frank shook his head sadly. “I had hoped you would not mind.”

Emma’s ready wit pierced through the situation in an instant. “And now you wish me to continue the deception.”

He did not immediately answer.

“Poor Jane Fairfax! It is no wonder that she has been so unhappy. Indeed, so often ill!”

“She has been ill?”

“Such illness must be the natural result of  such a system of secresy and concealment! What has this been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,—espionage, and treachery? Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hear.  I could not possibly take part in such deception, knowing as I do the pain that it must cause.”

“But Miss Woodhouse, what would you have me do?”

“You must tell your aunt directly, if you mean to marry, and break the engagement if you do not. A woman’s heart is not a plaything. I speak for Miss Fairfax as well as for your aunt. It may well be that she cannot stand the thought of losing you, so fond of you as she must be. She has taken you in as her own son, and there can be no greater love than the love of a mother for her children.”

“I am afraid she will be very angry with me,” Frank said doubtfully.

“I cannot chuse for you,” Emma said, “but I will not participate in any scheming.”

While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready;  and they had been standing before it for some time already.

“I must go,” she said. “My father will be waiting.”

He handed her in with such a look of despair as to almost make her sorry for him, but soon the horses were in motion. She spoke but little to Harriet,  who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent.

She resolved that she should call upon Miss Fairfax the very next morning. She scolded herself for  not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now.—Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other—what was she?—Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax's confidence on this important matter—which was most probable—still, in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill's. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand instances.

She could recall a thousand instances in which she might have acted differently, and these recollections troubled her all the way home.


	3. Volume 3, Chapter 8

Emma called on Miss Fairfax early,  that nothing might prevent her.  The maid told her that the ladies were all at home, but  there was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking. She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, “Well, my dear, I shall  _ say _ you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.”

Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite understand what was going on.

“I am afraid Jane is not very well,” said she, “but I do not know; they  _ tell _ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very little able—Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure she will be here presently.”

Emma was most distressed to see Miss Fairfax in such a state, and she inquired after her as soon as Miss Bates returned.

“Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose you have heard—and are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me—(twinkling away a tear or two)—but it will be very trying for us to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning:—such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. 'My dear,' said I, 'you will blind yourself'—for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate—such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out—do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune—(again dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you—she is not able—she is gone into her own room—I want her to lie down upon the bed. 'My dear,' said I, 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:' but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door—I was quite ashamed—but somehow there was a little bustle—for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming. 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' said I, 'depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,' said she, 'it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' But then Patty came in, and said it was you. 'Oh!' said I, 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'—'I can see nobody,' said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting—and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. 'If you must go, my dear,' said I, 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'”

“What? Has she secured a situation so soon? I thought  it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return.”

Emma, of course, was able to guess that Jane had truly put the matter off in hopes of marriage to Frank Churchill. Her sudden change and intense distress must indicate that he had broken the engagement with her after all, and Emma expressed her deepest sympathy to Miss Bates without quite giving away the secret.

“So very kind!” replied Miss Bates. “But you are always kind.” 

“Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?”

“To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most superior—to have the charge of her three little girls—delightful children. Impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:—lives only four miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.”

“Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes—”

“Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at present—and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again—and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind!—but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she positively declared she would  _ not _ write any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not the least idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it.—I did not know a word of it till it was all settled.”

“Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends—but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is possible—I mean, as to the character and manners of the family.”

“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman!—A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—and as to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness!—It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.—And her salary!—I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane.”

“Ah! madam,” cried Emma, “if other children are at all like what I remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly earned.”

“You are so noble in your ideas!”

“And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?”

“Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the worst of it. Within a fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and say, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more.”

“Her friends must all be sorry to lose her,”  Emma said quietly. Poor Jane! To be forced into the life of a governess with a broken heart and to owe a debt of gratitude to Mrs. Elton for it! Whatever jealousy Emma had felt towards her on account of her own wounded pride was swept away. Jane Fairfax had kept her engagement secret, but she had done nothing to harm anybody. Surely she must have seen it as her final hope of being rescued from the misfortune which had fallen to her lot in life, and thus she had desperately clung to it. From the pitch of her sufferings, Emma could not but conclude that she must have loved him as well, and very much so.

And yet little was there to be done by Emma.  In Jane's eyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. Once again had foolish blindness brought the ruin of a friendship that there might have been. How might she have been of assistance if only she had not fancied herself deserving of Frank Churchill’s attentions as her simple due! If she had acted by her heart, which held no real affection for him, rather than a proud and fanciful imagination, she should never have done half the things that stabbed at the heart of poor Jane Fairfax.

These thoughts were so little pleasing, that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave. 


	4. Volume 3, Chapter 9

Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found news which must rouse her.  Her father told her that Mr. Knightley had called during her absence, and that he had stopped just long enough to report that he was being called away to urgent business in London.

Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;  she should have liked to seek advice from Mr. Knightley on this troubling situation. At least she might have called upon him to do some kindness for Jane Fairfax in her stead.

Her father found it very disagreeable as well, especially as he was  going so suddenly; and going on horseback.  She could not seek her father’s advice as Mr. Knightley’s, but she did communicate the news Miss Bates had told her.  It supplied a very useful check,—interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully.

The day passed very quietly, as Hartfield was not visited by Miss Bates or Frank Churchill or even Harriet. Even Mrs. Weston stayed at home, and Mr. Weston with her. Emma played a whole evening of backgammon with her father, but turned in early.

She never had been so depressed. She spent a sleepless night, full of tears and sighing, reflecting upon all that she had done in selfishness. Jane Fairfax was to go to her situation in the poorest of spirits, and to leave Highbury perhaps forever. Frank Churchill certainly should not return, and must always be angry with her even if he were forced to call upon his father once or twice. Mr. Elton had never yet forgiven her, and she had little doubt that her role in the situation had caused him to take a wife perhaps a bit more hastily than he ought. Mrs. Elton she was certain she never could be friends with.

If there was any hope for Harriet, it must lie in Emma distancing herself. For she could not visit the wife of a man such as Robert Martin, and Harriet would never find her happiness if she did not.

Many tears were shed over such painful realizations. In the time since Miss Taylor had left them to become Mrs. Weston, so much had happened to cause Emma to lose more friends than she would ever have thought possible. Even Mrs. Weston must have less time for visiting now that she and Mr. Weston were expecting a child, and their time must be all the more engaged after the birth.

Emma herself had pledged to never marry, but she knew that even Mr. Knightley must find a wife eventually. Harriet had called forth a painful reminder of the fact. Had he perhaps gone off as Mr. Elton had, in hopes of finding relief from affections for Harriet which he would not indulge?

Emma feared that she would soon be very much alone, and she found this to be troubling her most of all. It should not, perhaps, have surprised her to come to this as the true root of her feelings. After all, had not this been the very reason for her sabotage of Harriet’s relationship with Robert Martin and all other men of his ilk? She truly was a most selfish, wretched creature.

The next morning, she called upon Miss Bates again, feeling exceptionally sorry that she had ever found her company to be irritating. Truly Miss Bates had always been so kind to her and to her father, a steady friend indeed, and one deserving of appreciation. She met Mr. Perry on the road, and found that he had just visited Jane Fairfax, though against her own consent.

He related to her that Jane was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged—appetite quite gone—and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:—confined always to one room;—he could have wished it otherwise—and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her—be it only an hour or two—from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and at last she determined to write to her, for upon arriving Miss Bates had only told her that Jane was not able to see anybody on that day. 

Emma wrote, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name—mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient.  She felt it necessary to add as well such hints as she felt Jane must recognize, that Frank Churchill had told her of the secret engagement and that she herself had rather hoped that he would honor it. She hoped it might be sufficient to overcome anything of jealousy that lingered in her, and entice her to accept the kindness offered.

She had no sooner sent off the letter than Harriet came with surprising news! She had been occupied the previous day because she had been calling on the Martins.

“I was so very anxious you would not approve,” Harriet said, “but after the reminder of them I rather thought it might be proper to make amends for being cold to them. Mr. Martin was not there, only his sisters you see, and they were so grateful to hear my explanation and to have the pleasure of my company for a few hours.”

“Indeed I do approve!” Emma cried. “It is the most natural thing in the world that you should wish to be reconciled to your friends, who have been so kind to you. Well do I recall you telling me of the happy months you spent with them. Indeed, I am sorry only that there should still be awkwardness between yourself and Robert Martin which must be cause of difficulties.”

Harriet blushed. “Oh! Yes. You think that I should speak to him?”

Emma did encourage it most heartily, hoping as she did to be making up for all of her previous interferences. It seemed to her that Harriet should be encouraged to do whatever she wished to do, and the greatest evil would be for her to continue pleasing Emma where her own interests ran counter. Greatly did she value the friendship that Harriet had given her, but Harriet must let her heart be free, whether that heart longed for Robert Martin or any other young man who might bring her happiness.

Emma was, at last, resigned to the idea that her judgment of such matters would never be correct. She did wish that she could discover whether Harriet might all along have had an interest in Robert Martin or whether her feelings for Mr. Knightley might be changing, but it was just as well that she could not. Not knowing, she could only encourage Harriet to do whatever might be best for her, and this, to her, seemed the best way that a friend should act.

Emma’s spirits were much lifted by this visit, but they were lifted even moreso when she received a reply to her letter. Jane Fairfax did indeed think a bit of exercise might do her good and hoped that Emma might call for her in the carriage the following morning!


	5. Volume 3, Chapter 10

The following day, however, brought news to throw the planned outing with Jane Fairfax into a completely different light.  Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who “could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her.”—He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,

“Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?—Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you.”

“Is she unwell?”

“No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you  _ alone _ , and that you know—(nodding towards her father)—Humph!—Can you come?”

“Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?—Is she really not ill?”

“Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!”

To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.

“Now,”—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,—“now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.”

“No, no,”—he gravely replied.—“Don't ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.”

“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with terror.—“Good God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has happened in  London. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is.”

“No, indeed you are mistaken.”—

“Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in  London.  Which of them is it?—I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.”

“Upon my word, Emma.”—

“Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!—What can be to be  _ broke _ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?”

“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley.”

Emma's courage returned, and she walked on.

“I was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being  _ broke _ to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you—it concerns only myself,—that is, we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.—If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.”

Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern—something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family.

They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—“Well, my dear,” said he, as they entered the room—“I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.”—And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,—“I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea.”

Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,

“What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;—do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be.”

“Have you indeed no idea?” said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. “Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?”

“Mr. Weston told me only that it is something which concerns himself. I do hope that he has not found himself in any sudden difficulty.”

“It does relate to Mr. Weston, but the difficulty is not so great as to outweigh the blessing. The blessing, that is, for us. I will tell you directly. Mr. Frank Churchill has arrived this morning, and he has come to stay with us for good.”

Emma gasped, but Mrs. Weston continued, “ It is impossible to express our surprize.  He spoke to his father  on a subject,—to announce an attachment—More than an attachment, indeed, an engagement—a positive engagement.—What will you say, Emma—what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax have long been engaged!” 

“I must say that I have known it a bit longer than yourself,” Emma replied. “Frank told me of the matter after the party on Box-Hill, and I encouraged him to speak of it to his aunt and uncle.”

Mrs. Weston jumped with surprise. “What is this?”

“I am sorry,” Emma said, “that I could not tell you sooner, but I felt that it was not my place. Rather I had hoped that Frank would be the one to tell you, and so it seems he has. The only circumstance which surprises me is that he should come to stay with you and not at Enscombe.”

“My dear Emma,” Mrs. Weston said, “how difficult this must have been for you!”

“I will not pretend  _ not _ to understand you;” Emma replied. “And to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of.”

Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words.

“That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference,” she continued, “I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him,  but I found that it was only fancy. I do not know why I should not have grown attached to him, but I have really cared nothing about him.  You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.”

Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do.

“Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” said she. “On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other—and we were persuaded that it was so.— Imagine what we have been feeling on your account.”

“I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit  _ him _ , Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so  _ very _ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did—to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did—while he really belonged to another?—How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?—How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?—very wrong, very wrong indeed.”

“You mustn’t be too hard on him,” Mrs. Weston said. “I dare say he has paid the price. To say it plainly, Jane Fairfax has broken off the engagement. Indeed, she broke off the engagement immediately following the party at Box-Hill.”

“What?” Emma pondered for a moment. “But I suppose it does make sense. How could she  bear such behaviour ? To  look on, while repeated attentions were offered to another woman, before her face.  If she did not resent it that would be the greater wonder.”

Mrs. Weston sighed. “ There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly. I cannot say that he was in the right, but he has met with great misfortunes resulting from his actions. As soon as he received word that Miss Fairfax meant to break off the engagement, he attempted to write to her, to explain that he had let his temper get the better of him and that he truly desired to have no wife other than herself, whatever he might have claimed to the contrary in public, but she would not hear a word of it. She insisted that the engagement could not lead to happiness for either of them, and she sent a parcel containing all his letters, and requested, that if he could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, he should forward them after that period to her at—: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol. 

“Knowing then how dire the situation had become and, perhaps encouraged by the conversation I now understand that you had with him at the Box-Hill party, he determined at last to bring the matter to his aunt and uncle, for he would prefer to risk their disapproval rather than face the certainty of losing her forever. He sent a trusted servant with a letter to be opened by her hand alone, begging her for just a few more days, that his aunt might recover from her illness before he spoke with her, but the letter could not be delivered due to Miss Fairfax’s illness. Thrown into an even greater despair, he disclosed the matter at once, and, well, you can see the result here today.”

“He has been entirely disinherited?” Emma cried.

“I do not believe the matter fully settled,” Mrs. Weston said, “but I do believe that may be the result. Frank tells me that his aunt was most insistent, and his uncle never goes against her. I do not believe Mrs. Churchill to be a bad woman, but she is most prideful. She very probably had hopes for Frank to marry someone of a much higher class, and she may feel betrayed, both by his choice of Jane and by his extended period of secrecy.”

“Well, this is a troubling development!” Emma cried. “What is to be done about it?”

“My husband tells me that Mrs. Churchill may perhaps reconsider when she has recovered from her illness. She has long been known to become disagreeable when in ill health, a condition from which she later recovers, but Frank believes that she will never reverse her decision even if she might repent it in her heart. He says that she is far too proud to admit to admit to such ill temper and will always act in keeping with the things she has decided during it, at least if those decisions are as large as this. As for my husband, he is glad to see his son returned, though grieved that it must be under such circumstances. Frank will be welcomed here for as long as he might like.”

“A most troubling development,” Emma repeated. She stood and walked to the window, spending a few moments in meditation. “I’m sorry to leave so soon, but I must be off at once. In truth, I had promised Miss Fairfax that I would call upon her in the carriage this very morning, for the purpose of a bit of exercise. I suppose that I might do some good for her at least, although I must admit that I hardly know what I shall say to her!”

“Oh, Emma, you have ever been a caring friend. You should go to Jane and give what comfort you may, for I fear that she is quite in need of it.”

And so Emma took her leave.


	6. Volume 3, Chapter 11

Emma found Jane Fairfax looking very wan and sick. She was very sorry to see it and hoped with renewed fervor that the outing might do her some good.

Miss Fairfax thanked her for her kindness immediately after they set out. “I am quite sorry,” she said, “that I refused to see you on the morning after the Box Hill party. I suppose from your letter that you must understand.” Here she blushed.

Emma related at once her conversation with Frank Churchill, as well as her subsequent meeting with Mrs. Weston.

“I am so sorry that I ever saw you as a rival,” Miss Fairfax said. “One natural consequence of the evil I involved myself in was that it made me quite _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done amiss exposed me to a thousand inquietudes, and made me captious and irritable to a degree that I blush to think of.”

“I am sorry to say that I did nothing to alleviate your sufferings,” Emma said. “I should blush to think of all the times when I encouraged his advances, even knowing that I felt nothing for him. It must have been very difficult for you to bear.”

“It was. I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I did not have some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour.” Her lip quivered as she uttered it, which was an attestation that Emma felt at her heart.”

“The consequence,” Miss Fairfax said, “has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right. Do not imagine 'that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.”

“I cannot say that you did right,” Emma said, “but I can say that you have paid most dearly.”

“The price is paid on both accounts,” she said. “The engagement has ended. I shall be going out as governess to Mrs. Smallridge. And Mr. Churchill must bear the shame of disinheritance.” She wept some bitter tears.

“Cannot the engagement be renewed? Surely there is love between you and nothing more that can be lost.”

“Oh, no! I have been the cause of much unhappiness for him. I fear that it is much too great. He may yet be reconciled with his aunt if he only begs her pardon, and he may regain her favor by marrying a woman of her chusing. It would be very wrong of me to cause more pain to him. Truly, I am deserving of every misfortune that has befallen me, and I shall bear them as bravely as I might.”

Emma found her unrelenting on the subject. Miss Fairfax revealed to her that Frank Churchill had come to call on her at the first opportunity after revealing matters to his father, that he had apologized for his behaviour to her, what he called his ‘shameful, insolent neglect’, but that her reply to him had been the same as what she told to Emma now.

“I am afraid he went off in a dreadful temper,” she said. “But I do not believe his love for me is so great that he shall not recover from it in time. In truth, if his love for me was great he should have confessed it from the start. I know he never wished to forfeit or to even risk his inheritance and standing for my sake, and I am sure that in time he shall be very grateful to have been refused.”

And here she wept again, so that Emma could do nothing but attempt to comfort her until she was returned to the keeping of her relatives.


	7. Volume 3, Chapter 12

The evening following the outing with Miss Fairfax was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield. The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible.

The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side. It  continued much the same the following morning; and the same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at Hartfield—but before the noon it cleared; the wind changed into a softer quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was summer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry's coming in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time in hurrying into the shrubbery.—There, with spirits freshened, and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming towards her.—It was the first intimation of his being returned from London. She had been thinking of him the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles distant. In half a minute they were together. His “How d'ye do” was quiet and constrained. She asked after their mutual friends; they were all well.—When had he left them?—As soon as the rain had stopped—He meant to walk with her, she found. “He had just looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred being out of doors.”—She thought he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her fears, was, that he had heard the news of Harriet’s renewed acquaintance with Robert Martin, that his heart was broken, and that Emma herself would bear the blame of it when he learned of her involvement.

They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give. And this belief produced a dread. Perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for encouragement to begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She considered—resolved—and began—

“You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprize you.”

“Have I?” said he quietly, and looking at her; “of what nature?”

“A most melancholy affair. Mr. Weston has his son returned to him, but the circumstance has nothing of happiness in it beyond that fact.”

“If you are referring to the engagement that existed between Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already.”

“How is it possible?” cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard's in his way.

“I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.”

Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more composure,

“ _ You _ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you tried to give me a caution.—I wish I had interpreted the signs myself—but—(with a sinking voice and a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.”

For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,

“Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—Your own excellent sense—your exertions for your father's sake—I know you will not allow yourself—.” Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken and subdued accent, “The feelings of the warmest friendship—Indignation—Abominable scoundrel!”

Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the surprize of such tender consideration, replied,

“You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set you right.— I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”

“Are you, indeed?” he said. “I am pleased that you can say even so much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment of more than your reason.—Fortunate that your affections were not farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt—I could only be certain that there was a preference—and a preference which I never believed him to deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of man.”

“Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, “I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.—But I never have.”

“You really never have?”

She sighed. “I understand why you would think I had. I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.—An old story, probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—I always found him very pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some time, indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side. He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself—except that I was  _ not _ blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I was somehow or other safe from him.” 

“I cannot say that I approve of your conduct in this matter,” Mr. Knightley said, “but Frank Churchill bears the greater portion of the blame. Acting as he did towards you, it is no great wonder that you were tempted in such a fashion. Indeed, he must have known the consequences of his actions both to you and to Miss Fairfax, and still he would continue. I am glad that you, at least, escaped so lightly.”

“You may be assured that I have learned my lesson. I have resolved never to marry, and I renew my resolution with a greater strength. I believe that I shall never understand such matters, and I should not have fancied otherwise. Truly, I was blind to my own faults, to my own nature.” It pained her to confess these things, but she found the greater pain was that his opinion of her had been so lowered. She decided she must make a clean breast of it.

“Though I had no knowledge of Frank Churchill’s engagement to Miss Fairfax, still I should not have encouraged his attentions when he might have favored one such as herself who might return them. I find that I have been quite selfish, and I suffer the results of it. Frank Churchill must be upset with me, for truthfully I discovered the engagement before Miss Fairfax broke it off and encouraged him to reveal it to his aunt and uncle. I regret not that I encouraged him to tell the truth, but if I had but done so earlier he might have spoken with his aunt when she was well. The matter might have been resolved to the happiness of all, and even if it were not I would have saved Jane Fairfax some portion of the torment which she must have felt. I might have been a friend to her, but now she shall be lost to us forever.”

Mr. Knightley placed a hand upon her arm. “Dear Emma, you must not blame yourself too harshly.”

Emma sighed. “You have not heard the end of it. I fear you may be saddened also when I tell you that I have encouraged Harriet to renew her friendship with the Martins. It was due to my own interference, perhaps, that she did not accept him from the first, and if she had you might never have become attached to her.”

“I, attached to Harriet?” he cried.

“Are you not?” she asked. “But Harriet did tell me that you spoke to her at Donwell, that you had praised her, and that you seemed to be asking whether her affections were engaged.”

“Ah, Emma,” Mr. Knightley said, “I fear that I have been too harsh with you, for I see that I have blindness of my own. I did praise Harriet, for she has qualities that I admire in a woman, but I carry no affection for her. I was seeking to be kind to her, for I had found that I had previously underrated her. I knew also that she was your friend, and I was seeking to create a better harmony between us all, just as I was when shared a dance with her. I suppose that is when this began?”

“It is.”

“Yes, Emma, I was trying to be kind, just as when I aided Miss Fairfax through the use of my carriage. I admire her fine qualities as well, but my thought was only for her health. In truth, I am content to be a bachelor, but it seems at every turn I am suspected of attachment where I sought only friendship!”

“Well, at least you shall fear no such thing from me,” said Emma with a smile.

“I see that I shall not,” he said, “but allow me to be open with you now. Truly I always have admired you. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. In truth, my interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?—and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me while satisfying myself that you should never form such temptations towards myself as you did towards Frank Churchill. I must confess that this has been my object ever since you were thirteen at least.” 

“I am sure you were of use to me,” said Emma. “I was very often influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good.”

“Well then I hope I might continue to do you good for years to come. Except that I would wish to be more gentle since we now understand each other. Do not despair, Emma, for there are kinds of love we may experience beyond that shared between a husband and a wife. If you would have me, I should like to always be your friend.”

“Oh, Mr. Knightley,” Emma cried. “I should like nothing more!”


End file.
